


Seeking Christmas

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Day 14, Enemies to Friends, Epistolary, Eventual Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 18:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13013346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: If there's one thing in life that's certain, it's that Mycroft Holmes' little brother has a way of derailing his life completely. But not nearly as much as a certain DI is going to do. Christmas is never going to be the same for Mycroft Holmes.





	Seeking Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mottlemoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/gifts), [egmon73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egmon73/gifts).



> I very much hope that the formatting of the narrative, letters, cards, emails and texts isn't too confusing. I tried hard to keep everything as distinct as possible. As to the timeline of events, I THINK I kept to them, although I fudged things toward the end, for my own purposes.
> 
> It has been an honor and a privilege to be a part of this wonderful calendar. Many, many thanks to all the contributors, supporters, and readers. A huge round of applause to Mottlemoth and Egmon73 for organizing this! <3

          It all started, as so many things in Mycroft’s life, with Sherlock; Sherlock, a truculent Christmas card, and a pair of handcuffs.

          In late 2001, when Sherlock shocked his family by plunging headlong into his addiction and all of its attendant troubles (it was to be less a struggle and more of an embrace), Mycroft had been hard pressed to find any joy in a season which he already viewed with a very jaundiced eye. While it would be difficult to say which caused him more stress, his career (both the official and the unofficial), his superior (in name only), his younger brother, or his parent’s continued desire to play Happy Families at Christmas time, they certainly all contributed to his stress. Sherlock’s new-found habit led Mycroft to what at first looked like one more problem.

          For a variety of very excellent reasons, he could not simply heave his superior out of the nearest window (defenestration had been a particular favourite of an irate ancestor of his, who had been known by the rather rapacious nickname of Bloody Vernet during the first Elizabeth’s reign), nor could he (as yet) forge his own career path. Certain delicate negotiations were still in the works, and impatience had never been a fault of his. His family, however, seemed determined to undermine his plans and induce unending stress.

          “Mummy, I am at _work_ ,” Mycroft hissed softly, pinching the bridge of his nose with brutal force and keeping his voice low. Barely thirty, he was still relatively young for a man determined to rise among the ranks as a civil servant, the true nature of his aspirations meant he had to keep a low profile amongst his colleagues. “I cannot go haring off after Sherlock on another of his mad bids for attention—”

          “Myc,” Mummy sort of moaned, “It—it’s very serious, this time, darling. He’s, Sherlock’s gotten into… _drugs_.”

          He refused to believe her at first. Sherlock was many things: horrible, wonderful, brilliant, idiotic, quixotic, nervy, difficult and chaotic. But he wasn’t a drugs sort of person; certainly not the kinds of things which Mummy was outlining in horrible detail in between sniffs and snivels. It was unthinkable that he would risk his tremendous intellect and not inconsiderable talents for recreational highs. Particularly not with something as dangerous as cocaine. “And there are even whispers of worse, Myc,” Mummy said hoarsely, breaking down again. “He’s been missing for nearly three weeks—”

          They’d had serious words over the fact that no one had bothered to inform him for _three weeks_ that his baby brother was at loose in the world, under the influence of heinous drugs and nefarious forces. Assuring her that he would handle it—when did he not—Mycroft had hung up the phone only to pick it right back up and call in several favours he had been holding in reserve for a power play. No matter that, now. Sherlock was the most important part.

         

******

 

          Given the superiority of his intellect and his resources, Mycroft, of course, found Sherlock before the police who were supposedly on the lookout for missing persons.

          Although not, as it turned out, before Sherlock was found by the police.

          “I appreciate that he’s your brother, sir,” the youngish Detective Inspector said with barely restrained annoyance masked as polite cooperation, “But he was found in the vicinity, in possession of drugs, and even worse—in possession of facts about the recent rash of homicides which only the police would be in a position to know,” His voice dropped the friendly façade, went grim, “Or the killer.”

          “It’s kill _ers_ ,” Sherlock snarled through his druggy haze, barely standing upright despite the fact that he was being held by either arm, a pawn between two determined men. “Only you lot are so _stupid_ you can’t even _see_ the evidence plainly displayed—” He jerked to remove his arm, but the dark eyed police officer had a very firm grip, “in front of your nose.” He looked blearily at Mycroft, “Or even in front of _his!_ ” And he pointed most unkindly at Mycroft’s least favourite feature and giggled. The twit.

          “Not. Now. Sherlock.” Mycroft growled, shaking his brother. His initial worry over the state he’d found Sherlock in was rapidly dwindling in the face of his brother’s semi-coherence, usual abrasive demeanor, and the very untimely appearance of the irritatingly handsome DI who was delaying them in a most unnecessary manner. “Mummy is extremely worried and I wish to deliver you to her post haste so that she may be assured of your relative well-being.”

          “ _He’s_ your brother.” It was a flat statement, but the disbelief was prevalent. True, Sherlock was hardly looking his best, but surely anyone could see the resemblance in height and build, the similar colouring, the absolutely sibling-inherent way Sherlock had of winding him up at the drop of a hat. “And you say two men are responsible for the murders?” He looked with faint suspicion between them, “One of which happened at the very skip where I found you?”

          Mycroft closed his eyes, petitioned an unkind universe for patience, “Detective Inspector…?”

          “Greg Lestrade.”

          “Detective Inspector Lestrade, while I can appreciate your tenacity, and while my brother is not wrong about the evidence, I’m afraid your imagination is about to lead you astray. Aside from the fact that I do not match the profile of either of the men you are looking for, I could not have been responsible, since I have recently been out of the country on business.” He smiled smoothly, fishing in his overcoat pocket for a (felonious) business card.

          “Mycroft works for the Minister of Transport,” Sherlock interrupted rudely.

          “They send you lot abroad often do they? You lads from the Transport office?” The DI’s lip curled as he glanced at his thuggish young Sergeant for support, “No wonder the government’s balls.”

          _Hell and damnation_ ; due to his brother’s untimely interjections, his cover story (boring yet air-tight) was now out in the cold. He didn’t have time for this nonsense. Mycroft pulled out a handkerchief instead of the card and pressed it to his nose, trying to look on the verge of tears. He’d been a brilliant Lady Bracknell, but tears were always hard for him to produce spur of the moment. “Officer, I can assure you, I was indeed unavailable for homicide, and if you would permit me to make a phone call, I can have this all cleared up in a trice.” Even as he spoke he was extracting his mobile. And there went the last of his favours, Mycroft reflected in disgust, watching the disbelief chased almost immediately by shock and worry on the face of the problematic police officer. Taking his mobile from the man’s hand, he wiped it fastidiously with his handkerchief before tucking it in his pocket.

          Good-looking face taut with thwarted fury, the DI gestured down the alley, “You’re both free to go.”

          “Thank you,” Mycroft said politely, hauling Sherlock unceremoniously after him down the alley.

          “Give my love to the Minister!” The man yelled after them. Mycroft felt a vague sympathy for his directionless rage at the imperious orders from on high—how much better it would be when _he_ was the one giving the orders instead of taking them—but he had scant thought to spare for the man now.

          “Let go,” Sherlock groused, pulling uselessly. His recent drug binge had weakened him, and he lacked the strength to affect an escape.

          “No. Now, stop fighting me and accept your fate.” Mycroft bundled him into the back of the waiting taxi and directed the man to Euston Station.

          “Wait…” Sherlock turned to him, blinking suddenly damp and betrayed eyes, “Mycroft…you’re—you’re not…taking me home?” His eyes shifted tellingly toward the door, and Mycroft sighed at his continued obstinacy. Sherlock was perfectly capable of flinging himself from a moving vehicle.

          “Yes I am. Mummy will no doubt tie you to your bed and effect a very zealous and loving rehabilitation for you.” Mycroft clicked the handcuffs shut around Sherlock’s right wrist and snapped the other end around his left wrist before his brother could react. “I’m sure you’ll see the error of your ways after several weeks of enforced bed rest, with only Mummy and Father for company.” Trying to touch Sherlock’s wholly objectionable hoodie as little as possible, he retrieved his wallet with a tsk which didn’t raise so much as a protest from his silently mourning brother.

          Sherlock laid his disheveled head against the taxi window, and slumped, looking as if he were too exhausted and high to affect any sort of revolt. Mycroft, being used to haring off after his brother over the years, squashed down his concern and worry and kept a weather eye on him, lest he try to pick the lock and bolt. They rode in silence, both ignoring the surreptitious glances in the mirror they were receiving from the taxi driver. “Nice move with the handcuffs,” his brother muttered grudgingly as they approached the station. “Although I doubt the DI will think so.”

          “He’ll chalk it up to experience and forget about it.” Just as he would forget the hot dark eyes and graceful jaw of the young man who now loathed him for pulling a rank so high he couldn’t even envision the top of it. It was silly to even feel regret for cutting the man off at the knees the way he had, by necessity, been forced to do. They would never meet again; it was over, and that was only something to be grateful for.

 

******

 

          “Mail for you, Holmes,” the insolent young mail room intern drawled, dropping a bright red envelope on Mycroft’s desk two weeks later.

          Mycroft eyed it askance. It looked like a personal piece of post. He never received personal items at work. Gingerly he picked it up and neatly slit the top of the envelope with a penknife; inside was a Christmas card with a cheerful image of a fat snowman on the front, cheap glitter already flaking off of it and onto his hands. He grimaced and brushed his fingertips together, but to no avail. Ignoring it for the moment, he flipped the card open and his eyes went immediately to the signature.

          The police officer had found him.

_Mr. Holmes—_

_When you left me in that alley with my arse hanging in the breeze—and ta for lifting my handcuffs you giant berk, you do realize I have to account for those and it took me reams of paperwork to get issued another pair—I admit I was grateful to see the back of you. Certainly didn’t ever think I’d hear from you again, once you had the big guns pulled to get me off your brother._

_Funny thing, though. Next day my department received an anonymous tip with very specific details regarding the men we were looking for. A tip which turned out to be correct, and which led to their arrest. So thanks for that. Guess we’re even._

_Good luck with your brother. I’ve met my share of junkies, and the kids got it bad. I hope your parents can sort him. I hope I never see him again, but if I do, well, he’s got one free pass, from me._

_Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes._

  1. _Lestrade_



          How singularly odd and unexpected. That the man should have sussed out that it was he who had provided the information…although, of course, he could hardly have become a Detective Inspector if he were a fool. But for him to have not only found Mycroft’s direction, but to have sent him a card…

          It was most unexpected.

          After a very long moment of hesitation, Mycroft tucked the card back inside the envelope and stowed it inside his briefcase. He needed to dispose of the card, but given the personal nature of the contents, he would, of course, need to do so at home.

 

******

 

_Mr. Holmes,_

_As I told your brother, I owed you both a favour, and it was discharged by me letting him go when he was pulled in that sweep of the doss house. Don’t mean I can let him go when he assaults my constables, nor when he calls me an incompetent cocksucker. He should have kept his mouth shut. And you should really stop bailing him out of trouble like that. Having someone call the Chief Super at home on a Sunday? Really? I’d ask if you know what that does to a man’s career, except my DCI called me in this morning to inform me that I wasn’t to be reprimanded for the “zealous performance” of my duties._

_So thank you, I guess._

_Happy Christmas, if any of you can enjoy it with your brother in the state he is._

  1. _Lestrade_



_2003_

_******_

          “Mr. Holmes.” There was an unspoken blasphemy in the man’s tone.

          He was all that was cool and civil, “Detective Inspector.”

          They nodded somewhat uneasily at one another. It was freezing in the alley, and while it was not any place anyone wanted to linger, still, the unwholesome atmosphere was made worse by the forced Christmas cheer visible just blocks away. Mycroft wished suddenly and deeply to be tucked in a snug in some insufferable pub, drinking a subpar whiskey and not meeting the man like this after several years of nothing but intermittent Christmas cards bristling with hostility and grudging thanks.

          Unfortunately, a woman was dead, and she happened to fall under Lestrade’s purview, yet she also happened to be one of _his_ agents. Now if only he could manage this entire encounter without further antagonizing the other man. Luckily, he had excellent diplomatic skills, and an absolutely unassailable cover story with which to ease the other man complacently out of the alley and out of his life.

          “It’s my bloody crime scene,” the other man growled five minutes later.

          “Detective Inspector, please don’t misunderstand me when I say that it is with the deepest respect possible which I inform you that this crime scene no longer belongs to you. It is a matter of gravest national importance—”

          “Brutal homicides fall under the direction of the Ministry of Transport, do they?” His derision was cutting. “Roads, Bridges, Railways and dead prozzies?”

          Mycroft clung to his patience with admirable aplomb. Really, the appeal of the man’s rather noticeable masculine beauty was quickly being eroded by his sheer stubbornness and smart-mouthed gall. “I am a humble civil servant attempting to execute the duty which my superiors pressed upon me. In my capacity as a minor government official, it is sometimes necessary for me to oversee many…” he trailed off, aware he had lost his audience.

          “Does anyone ever actually believe that twaddle? _Minor_ government official!” He snorted forcefully. “More like major pain in my arse.” He glared at Mycroft, “Show me your official papers and let me clear out. No need to call the Chief Super again. I’m getting the message.”

 

_Mr. Holmes you arse. You giant ~~paint~~ pain in my arse. God what I wouldn’t give to kick you in your arse so you know just how much of a pain you are. I’ve had ~~four~~ ~~five~~ seven drinks and all I can think about is your arse. Not like that. It might be high  & tight in those fancy trousers you wear but to me it’s just a big target. I definitely don’t think about you like that._

_I’m married now, did you know? Course you did. You know everything, apparently. Bet you didn’t know her name is Emily and she’s six years younger than me and too pretty and smart for me but she likes me anyway. Loves me anyway. She’s a teacher—really bright and loves books. You two might get along if you weren’t such a giant pain in my arse._

_Bet you know how really really ~~genou~~ genuinely pissed I am at you right now. Should be at home right now but instead I’m sitting in my local, writing you to tell you how annoying you are. You and your brother._

_How is he? If he keeps on like he has been he won’t last another year. I’d like to kick his arse as well. Just boot you both down a steep set of stairs. How come the pair of you keep turning up like bad pennies eh? Smart kid like that should be at uni, learning things and annoying his teachers & making stupid mistakes, not killing himself with a needle. What a fucking shame. What a great big fucking SHAME._

_Do the two of you have something against Christmas for Christs sake??_

_I’m out of room. Merry Christmas. Greg_

_******_

          “Is he—” Mycroft fell through the doorway to the waiting room, managing to catch himself on the jamb and keep from tumbling over the nearest chair. There had been no one at the nurse’s station, a grievous oversight for which he expected to make more than a few heads roll, as soon as he found out if Sherlock was still—

          Greg Lestrade leapt to his feet, a look of relief sweeping over him at the sight of Mycroft. So he wasn’t dead. Yet. Mycroft trembled faintly all over as he worked to control his breathing and his expression.

          “He’s stable for now,” the DI said, eyeing him as if he were going to make him sit down whether he wanted to or not. Mycroft took the decision from him and lowered himself into a chair, keeping a distance between them, tucking his freezing hands—where had his gloves gone to?—in his lap and locking a cool expression on his face. Never reveal a chink in your armor.

          “I must go see him,” Mycroft stood again, unable to repress the wild fear that had been devouring him since he got the call. He’d nearly dismissed his driver and run all the way here, if only to release some of the terror beating urgently in his veins.

           Lestrade, who had just sank into his seat, popped back up. “You can’t—they’ve said it will be a while...” He fidgeted, not seeming to know how to handle himself when disaster forbade him from being an ass. “Why, uh…why don’t you have a seat? I’ll go ask the nurse how long it will be and get you a coffee.”

          “Tea,” Mycroft said automatically, “Black, no sugar.” He didn’t want sodding tea. He wanted to get to Sherlock. Dear God, how could this be happening again? How could it _still_ be happening? He sat in silent misery, lost in the circling of his own damning thoughts until Lestrade returned, bearing dreadful tea and middling news: they could see him in an hour.

          It was an unbearable hour. Mycroft tried to send the DI away, but he just received a disbelieving look, and he subsided, secretly glad of the company; even if it _was_ the most irritating man in London—excepting his brother, of course. They finished their horrid drinks and avoided small talk—weather, bad; work, mine field; politics, Christ no. He tried offering his congratulations on the man’s recent nuptials and received a slightly disbelieving look and was informed that it had been three years and great, thanks. Finally they trailed off, and sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts, both of them worrying about the troubled young man lying lost in the grip of his demons.

          A decade of experience in public office served him well, but occasionally the worry gnawing merrily on his heart would surface in the tremor of his hands. Mycroft clenched his fists tighter, concentrating on erasing all visible signs of his worry. The third time it happened, a large hand hovered over his, one finger tapped the back of his, and then retreated. It startled him out of the unceasing roundabout of his thoughts, and Mycroft glanced at the man next to him. He was staring serenely out the window, arms crossed over his chest, looking like the Rock of Gibraltar. Annoyance and gratitude warred in him, but Mycroft gave up on annoyance and looked away, concentrating on segmenting the time into half hours, quarter hours, minutes, seconds.

          “Surely it has been more than an hour,” Mycroft finally said, unable to take it any longer. Anxiety was keening inside him and he was seconds away from having a meltdown of Sherlockian proportions. Pacing and silently deducing the other occupants of the room was only so distracting.

          “It has been,” the other man said, checking his utilitarian wristwatch and standing. He looked rumpled and tired, but stalwart. He let a warm hand drop onto Mycroft’s shoulder briefly, “I’ll go see what’s keeping ‘em.”

          Mycroft nodded, barely waiting for him to leave the room before he was up out of his chair, out of the waiting room, out of his period of useless stasis and down the hallway toward the CCU. It was a matter of seconds to locate his brother’s bed. The sight of him brought Mycroft to a shuddering halt, and his voice went thin as tissue, thin as a thread, mere smoke pulled out of the depths of him and raveled in the air, “Sherlock…”

          It had been nearly three months since he last saw his brother. Every time he visited him at his objectionable flat on Montague Street they ended up in a spectacular row, and so it had grown all too easy to keep tabs on him through his usual means and dispense with the personal visits. Clearly this had been a monumental mistake, one he wouldn’t make again. The young man—God, he was thirty years old now, actually—lying on the starched sheets attached to too many machines and looking as pale and unresponsive as a corpse was no longer the bright, promising young man who had once owned the potential to dazzle the world with his talents and intellect.

          His little brother was a junkie.

          The first sob caught him by surprise, the second cut him off at the knees. Somewhere in the midst of the sudden shock and grief assailing him, Mycroft heard the faint squeak of footsteps, before warm, solid hands had him by the arms. He was lifted up and placed in a chair, a large, serviceable handkerchief appearing as if by magic. The struggle to suppress his tears burned in his throat, and he shuddered to get himself under control. With immense gratitude he heard the retreat of those selfsame footsteps and the swish of the door.

          Greg Lestade was a kind man—when he wasn’t being impossibly difficult and unnecessarily contrary— but Mycroft couldn’t unveil his emotional torment in front of him like this. This was a family matter.

 

 

_21 September 2007_

_Mr. Holmes,_

_Suppose I have you to thank for my simultaneous telling off and promotion? Serious Crimes, very swank. Why do I feel as if I’m being taken to task on the one hand, and being rewarded on the other? A suspicious man might think that you had something to hide. A good detective might work out that it was because I witnessed evidence that you are, in fact, human._

_I’ve got news for you, Holmes, I already knew that. No one who worries over your brother the way you do is going to make me believe that someone under all those power plays, fancy suits and sneers isn’t a man who takes care of his own. Sherlock is lucky to have you._

_Went by after work today, was going to drop in on him, visit a spell. But he was gone, bed empty. Staff told me he’d been checked out. Off to a private rehab facility was the rumour. I hope it helps him. Maybe coming so close to dying will set him on a firm path. Seen it happen._

_Tell him I said hey, and good luck._

_If there’s ever anything I can do, please let me know. You know where to find me._

_Greg Lestrade_

_28 September 2007_

_Detective Inspector Lestrade,_

_While I appreciate you investing such thought into my actions, I can assure you that I was unaware of any change in your fortunes. My felicitations upon the news of your promotion. You are a diligent, conscientious, and tenacious man of action, capable of judicious application of thought when called for. It was only a matter of time until someone recognized your abilities._

_Sherlock is resting comfortably in a facility which was recommended to me by someone who received the best of care there. We are hopeful this will be a turning point. While he is not any less caustic, he has at least agreed to commit fully to the program, and is aware that further financial support is contingent upon him finding suitable housing and meaningful occupation of his faculties._

_I shall pass on to my brother your greetings._

  1. _Holmes_



_12 January 2008_

_Mr. Holmes,_

_How did your brother get hold of my home phone number? Em answered and he “deduced” her down to her shoe size. Now she won’t speak to me, except to tell me I’m responsible for nutters getting our private line. Rein him in, won’t you?_

  1. _Lestrade_



_1 June 2008_

_Detective Inspector,_

_Sending those constables to inquire if I intended to pay my five hundred pounds in over-due parking tickets was humorous to someone of a juvenile mindset, I’m sure. But it hardly seems fitting for a man of your age nor stature._

  1. _Holmes_



_17 June 2008_

_Mr. Holmes,_

_A man of my age? Are you saying I’m old? I’ll have you know I’m in my prime. Just because you’re too stuffy to appreciate a joke doesn’t mean the rest of us are._

_Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Forty and Fabulous_

_Sherlock for the last time_

_I’m not giving you keys to_

_NSY!_

_GL_

_{Sent 23:23}_

_BORED!_

_SH_

_{Received 24:14}_

_Holmes—_

_Really, a pallet of furry handcuffs delivered to my office? Seems a bit “juvenile.”_

_Lestrade_

_P.S. Happy Christmas, old man._

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_5 January 2009 at 18:40_

_Subject: Sherlock_

_Mycroft,_

_Sherlock was at another of my crime scenes today. He mentioned you had been injured. Another trip abroad for the Ministry, no doubt. I hear the pot holes in North Korea are murder._

_Seriously, though…hope you’re alright._

_Greg_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_9 January 2009 at 10:05_

_Subject: Stop listening to my brother_

_Gregory,_

_Thank you for your kind—if flippant—inquiry. In the course of a completely innocent and unremarkable PERSONAL trip to China, I managed to twist my ankle on a kerb. No one was to blame but my own distraction. Please do not thrust Great Britain into nuclear war with Kim Jong-un with your continued attempts at wit._

_Mycroft Holmes_

_Mycroft—_

_Call me about your brother._

_Greg_

_{Received 16:16}_

_G—_

_He was clean. But thank you._

_\--M_

_{Sent 23:56}_

**_From the Personal Desk of_ **

**_Mycroft Holmes_ **

_8 July 2009_

_Gregory,_

_Well done on the Allendon case. The accolades were well-deserved. Mrs. Lestrade must be very proud._

_Mycroft Holmes_

_You’d think so, wouldn’t you?_

_Greg_

_{Received 22:17}_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_27 November 2009 at 07:15_

_Subject: He’s fine_

_Sherlock showed up at my place again—he wasn’t on anything, I don’t think—but he was rambling about the latest case he’s consulting on, and he was pale. Em’s out of town, so I let him kip on the sofa. Got a bit of food into him this morning and he seems more the thing. Think his blood sugar was low._

_G_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_13 December 2009 at 16:07_

_Subject: New digs_

_Mycroft,_

_Did you know he’d moved? I went to track him down and no sign of the bastard. He finally bothered to answer my text. Turns out he’s just moved into a place in central London. 221B Baker St. Thought I’d pop by after work in say an hour, and scope it out. Might see you there?_

_Greg_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_14 Dec 2009 at 06:42_

_Subject: Re: New Digs_

_Greg,_

_Thank you for the notice. Yes, I was aware he was moving yet again. This makes the fifth place since Montague Street. One hopes he will settle in here. The landlady is an old acquaintance of his, and surprisingly tolerant of his less appealing ways._

_Sorry to have missed you. Duty calls, as ever._

_Mycroft_

**_Season’s Greetings_ **

_Dear Mycroft,_

_Happy Christmas you diligent old road paver you._

_You like this card? Very swank. Emily picked them out, said the ones with our picture on the front was crass and my insisting I wanted to keep up the tradition was “emotional blackmail.” I always thought they were sort of nice. Picture of a happy family, what’s crass about that? Oh well, she’s probably right…I’m not exactly classy._

_Speaking of classy, YOUR Christmas card makes the entire rest of my office look like one big grease smudge. I’d swear the place was clean (enough) and then I pop your card up on the wall and BAM! Instant slum. Still and all, thanks for the card. One bright spot in a pretty shitty season, I must say. It’s hard to remember why Christmas used to thrill me when I was small. Nowadays it all seems so…empty. It was magic once, and now it’s just tinsel and canned music._

_God, listen to me drag on. This was meant to be a proper Christmas greeting. Not like before. I feel ashamed of myself when I think of some of the shite I used to send you. Wonder you didn’t have me deported to Siberia. Or press-ganged into a road crew in Dismal Swamp. Right now I’d fit right in._

_Did you ever think about running away to Australia or someplace when you were young? I wanted to have adventures when I was a kid. Then I wanted to be a rock star. Only, as it turns out, you have to have talent for that. Or ooze sex. I’m not sure I ever oozed sex. I’m fairly dry right now, and all._

_Maybe that’s what I’ll do when I retire. Disappear to some beach somewhere. Live off of fish and fresh air, and swing in my hammock while I drink. Swing on by and I’ll pop a brolly in your mai tai._

**_~~Merry Christmas from The Lestrades~~ _ **

_Merry Christmas from Greg_

_Greg, are you alright? MH_

_{Sent 19:23}_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_4 January 2010 at 20:02_

_Subject: Please reply_

_Gregory,_

_Sherlock refused to tell me if you are well, and I know you dislike it when I use other means to check up on you. Please at least let me know you are okay. Your seasonal greeting was…less than happy. Quite frankly, I miss the verbal abuse of days of old._

_Mycroft_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_4 January 2010 at 20:05_

_Subject: Re: Please reply_

_That was a joke, by the way._

_Mycroft_

_  
Mycroft, mate, sorry._

_Bit of a personal hell right now._

_Plus there’s these fucking serial_

_suicides driving me mental._

_Didn’t mean to worry you._

_Greg_

_{Received 04:55}_

_Your brother has a COLLEAGUE._

_When did he get a colleague?_

_GL_

_{Received 19:32}_

_John seems alright. Bit_

_mad for danger, but then,_

_sos your brother._

_GL_

_{Received 02:58}_

_Heaven help me, they’re_

_like children, the two of_

_them. John Watson_

_ENCOURAGES him._

_MH_

_{Sent 06:06}_

_Mycroft Holmes < _ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_31 March 2010 at 22:25_

_Subject: Boom_

_Mycroft,_

_No one will tell me anything, but I’m fairly certain your brother and John just narrowly escaped death by explosion. Wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?_

_Greg_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_1 April 2010 at 08:19_

_Subject: Re: Boom_

_Greg,_

_I fail to understand why you should think that I would have any knowledge of explosions. My brother is capable of angering any number of people. Perhaps he’s annoyed some extremist?_

_Mycroft_

_They use explosives in_

_excavating ROADWORK,_

_don’t they?_

_GL_

_{Received 09:06}_

_Arsenal will be the death of me._

_Put it on my tombstone: HE_

_LOVED NOT WISELY BUT_

_TOO WELL._

_{Received 20:34}_

_Oh my god, your scary_

_PA just kidnapped me._

_Please tell me I’m not_

_going to be offed for_

_knowing too much._

_Greg_

_{Received 15:29}_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_7 June 2010 at 17:45_

_Subject: Really?_

_Mycroft,_

_You could have just phoned and said you wanted to meet for tea. You DO realize that normal people don’t have someone kidnapped and delivered to them in an abandoned car park, right? They PHONE._

_Thanks for the coffee. Next time warn me. Nearly wet myself when Anthea smiled at me. That is one scary woman._

_Greg Lestrade, former possessor of bollocks_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_19 August 2010 at 12:36_

_Subject: Tea tomorrow?_

_Greg,_

_I would like to request the pleasure of your company at the Diogenes Club. Tomorrow at 10._

_Mycroft_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_21 August 2010 at 09:56_

_Subject: Re: Tea tomorrow_

_Mycroft,_

_You’ve got to be kidding me. Of course YOU belong to a club where no one talks. You might have WARNED me._

_Greg the gabby_

_God help me…_

_He’s quit smoking._

_Greg_

_{Received 11:02}_

_I’ve started again._

_Greg_

_{Received 15:41}_

_Mycroft, sometimes_

_I want to murder your_

_brother. He can’t keep_

_deducing me because_

_he’s bored. This is my_

_LIFE._

_G_

_{Received 20:14}_

_God its Christmas eve_

_and im blind drunk._

_{Received 23:40}_

_Mycroft? Oh…got your voice mail. Bugger. Yeah, it’s a bit late I guess…God, I’m sorry I’m calling so late. I know I’ve left it until the last minute—literally! But I, I just wanted to tell you Happy Christmas. I hope yours is, truly. May the new year be better. For both of us…_

**_The Hotel Lancaster_ **

_24 December 2010_

_Greg,_

_Your repeated calls to apologize for calling me in the first place have left the amusing and run into the absurd. Yes, it was late. No, I was not asleep. I would have answered, had I been in a position to do so. As your colleague and fellow Sherlock-sufferer, you may always depend upon me for understanding. He is horrendously tactless at times, but does not normally intend to wound. I think you realize this, although of course the nature of his deductions makes it hard for one to overlook in the heat of the moment._

_My apologies for the recent radio silence. I’m afraid certain matters have more than occupied my time. As always, I apologize for anything my brother may have said to offend you. Please do always remind yourself that things may not be as bleak as you paint them. People are capable of change and also capable of forgiveness. Don’t do anything rash. Particularly at Christmas, when emotions run high. After all, you are still looking for that Christmas magic, aren’t you? Perhaps it still exists._

_I believe that if it exists at all, it exists for people such as yourself._

_I may be back in London by the time this reaches you, but I thought I would send it regardless. It is quiet here in the hotel, there’s no one else in sight excepting myself and the bartender. I’m drinking a whiskey and writing you, instead of sleeping. I should be sleeping, I’ve much to do tomorrow, and much to occupy my mind, always. And yet here I sit, filling hotel stationary with ramblings which will no doubt appall me come morning, and the return of clarity. But I intend on posting this before I sober up, so it shall be out of my hands. Or as out of my hands as anything ever is._

_I’m beginning to believe that I am not, after all, omnipotent._

_Have you ever set something in motion that you very much fear you have lost control of from the moment it left your hands? Perhaps it is time that I cede mastery of the fates over my professional and personal life, and accept that not even I can arrange everything to suit myself. Even if at times fate appears to be offering me something which it is foolish even to want._

_I keep finding myself thinking of that beach, your hammock, the peace of it all. Does the offer of a Mai Tai still stand?_

_I’ve reached the end of the page, and the end of my drink. I think this is where I say merely Goodnight, Merry Christmas, and Happiest of New Years, Greg._

_Mycroft_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_14 March 2011 at 14:12_

_Subject: Dartmoor_

_Months of silence and you just summon me to your bunker and issue orders? Don’t know why I’m surprised, actually. The two of you are just alike, you don’t actually think about people’s feelings at all. After our conversation, and your letter, I thought—fuck what I thought. Clearly I was wrong. Big surprise there, I apparently see nothing._

_And for the record, just because this little errand isn’t cutting into my holiday time, doesn’t mean I’m happy about this, Holmes._

_I’ll go babysit your brother and report back to you. I’m expensing the fuck out of this, just so you know._

_Lestrade_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_16 March 2011 at 17:17_

_Subject: Re: Dartmoor_

_Somethings a bit off here, but too soon to tell what. Your brother is being a bigger dick than usual. John’s gone off in a strop._

_This place is vegetarian, did you know? Fuck you for that too._

_Lestrade_

_Mycroft Holmes < _ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_9 May 2011 at 21:24_

_Subject: The Trial_

_He’s testifying tomorrow. God help us._

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_12 October 2011 at 14:38_

_Subject: Moriarity_

_Have you or your brother anything to do with him disappearing?_

_Jesus Christ Mycroft_

_this is serious. If you know_

_where Sherlock & John have_

_gone to tell me NOW._

_GL_

_{Received 19:26}_

_30 November 2011_

_Mycroft,_

_I shouldn’t have doubted him. I didn’t, really. Just for a split second. For a minute. And it was enough for him to see and know he couldn’t trust me. It was enough to make a difference. It was just enough that John won’t talk to me now. I showed up at the funeral but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to you. I’m still in shock—I just don’t understand how any of this is possible, and I don’t understand—don’t believe—that Sherlock Holmes killed himself._

_Tell me it’s a lie, Mycroft. Some elaborate lie the two of you geniuses cooked up. I don’t deserve the truth, but for God’s sake, if that’s it, give it to me._

_Are you okay? I know you can’t be but…is there anything I can do? I tried coming by your bunker but they denied me entrance. I made a scene outside the Diogenes. Did you know? They probably thought I was a mad man._

_I hope you’re not all alone._

_Greg_

_My divorce came through._

_GL_

_{Received 16:25}_

_Found a new flat. It’s_

_a dump but it’s cheap._

_GL_

_{Received 06:12}_

_It’s been a year. Took_

_flowers by his grave._

_Headstone looks nice._

_GL_

_{Received 18:44}_

_Hope Anderson hasn’t been_

_making a nuisance of him-_

_self. He’s persistent, you_

_gotta give him that._

_GL_

_{Received 05:15}_

**_Merry Christmas_ **

_Mycroft,_

_Merry Christmas. Call me sometime._

_Greg_

_Thought I saw you on the_

_Tube the other day. Stupid._

_As if you’d be using public_

_transport._

_Greg_

_{Received 11:10}_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_3 November 2013 at 15:43_

_Subject: John_

_Mycroft,_

_Did you know he’s seeing someone? Looks fairly serious. I have to admit I’m surprised…I know he always said he and your brother weren’t an item...but._

_Greg_

_I will quite literally_

_kill you, Mycroft Holmes_

_you ARSE._

_{Received 19:36}_

_You knew all this_

_time didn’t you?_

_{Received 19:37}_

_No wonder you_

_haven’t responded_

_to a single one of_

_my texts or emails_

_for two years. Cock._

_{Received 19:40}_

_Mycroft,_

_This feels like a much happier Christmas, eh? God, what a weight off, to know that Sherlock’s alive! If anyone could make it happen, it would be the two of you. I’m not even mad any more, I’m just glad he’s back._

_I know I said some harsh things when I first found out—and I am slightly furious with you still, but only slightly—but the important thing is he’s back. God, it feels amazing to write that._

_No reason for you to ignore me now, is there? I know you mentioned at the party that you were working through the holidays, and I just wanted to let you know that I am pulling shifts so as many of the team with families can be home as possible. But maybe we can find a little time to lift a drink to the season, our careers and your brother? I’d like to catch up, and you left the party so abruptly I didn’t really get to talk to you._

_This year I can say Merry Christmas & mean it._

_Greg_

**_From the Personal Desk of_ **

**_Mycroft Holmes_ **

****

_Greg,_

_While only time will tell how long our enjoyment of Sherlock’s return will last (are you perhaps interested in a wager?), it is indeed easier to express the wish “Merry Christmas” and mean it._

_Any anger you feel towards me at my deception is well-earned, but you understand now why I was unable to reveal anything to you. It was not worth risking your life—and it would have looked both suspicious for us to continue any association with my brother gone, as well as have proved too onerous for me to keep up the charade in the face of your palpable grief. All that being said, I do wholeheartedly apologize for the necessity._

_Perhaps our schedules can coincide long enough for at least one festal drink. It may have to be late, or at rather short notice. I know you’re all too familiar with the havoc to one’s social life which exemplary dedication to one’s career can wreck. Between us we should be able to manage cocktails, however._

_Mycroft_

_It was good seeing you_

_again. Two years felt_

_like longer, what with_

_all that happened._

_Greg_

_{Received 16:47}_

_I’m sorry, I have to_

_cancel our plans, I’ve_

_got a rotten cold. Don’t_

_want to get you sick._

_Greg_

_{Received 08:48}_

_As it happens, so have I._

_Shall we meet for tea at the_

_Diogenes? Nothing like a_

_toasty fire & a pot of tea to_

_comfort one when one is_

_ill._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 09:17}_

_Mycroft,_

_Got my invite for the wedding. Going to be a bit weird, as I have to admit I was fairly certain he was going to call things off once your brother revealed he wasn’t dead. (Still pissed about that by the way)._

_Did you get an invitation? I can’t quite imagine John wanting you there, but you are his best friend’s brother and he’s done some work for you in the past. It would be pretty funny if you showed up cool as silk. I’ve got a plus one going unused if you want to come._

_Greg_

_Trust me, Detective, when I_

_say that no one wants me there._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 22:01}_

_Think it over. I could always use_

_the company._

_Greg_

_{Received 22:04}_

_Why did I miss him?  
{Received 23:58}_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_18 May 2014 at 19:49_

_Subject: The wedding_

_Mycroft,_

_You missed a hell of an event. Trust Sherlock to somehow turn John’s wedding into The Sherlock Hour. Solved an attempted murder too, by the way. Completely without meaning to. Sometimes he really is insufferable._

_I didn’t dance. Felt sort of funny there by myself. It would have been good to have you there for company._

_I moved into a better flat, out near Catford. You should come by sometime, crack open a bottle with me. Stop me from drinking alone._

_Greg_

_I warned you, Sherlock,_

_to leave the man alone._

_MH_

_{Sent 17:18}_

_You’re as bad as he is._

_SH_

_{Received 17:25}_

_Have you ever heard of the_

_lesser of two evils? He’s_

_repulsive, certainly, but_

_more useful where I can keep_

_a weather eye on his activities._

_MH_

_{Sent 20:20}_

_Did I leave my_

_notebook in your_

_car?  
Greg_

_{Received 01:22}_

_Greg—your notebook_

_is safe with my own. I’ll_

_return it to you—say_

_lunchtime tomorrow?  
Mycroft_

_{Sent 01:23}_

_Mycroft—I visited Sherlock again_

_today but he was asleep. Poor lad_

_took a beating between the bullet_

_and the surgery. He’s tough tho._

_Greg_

_{Received 11:27}_

_The cold case files you left for him_

_are a far more fitting gift than_

_flowers or cards. You know my brother_

_well._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 18:32}_

_M—_

_Still no sign of him. I’m looking_

_in all the usual places. Asked the_

_patrols to keep an eye out as well._

_Call me if you hear anything._

_G—_

_{Received 22:02}_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_29 September 2014 at 12:33_

_Subject:_

_Did I do something to offend you? You literally acted as if we were practically strangers when I ran into you at Baker Street. I know we’ve had our ups and downs, but I thought you and I were past that. I didn’t want to say anything since Sherlock’s recovering from his second surgery and the infection, and he seems a bit weak and preoccupied, but I want you to know that if I’ve done something we can talk it out. It’s not like the old days when we’d sulk and brood for a year or so._

_Greg_

_Mycroft Holmes < _ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_29 September 2014 at 12:47_

_Subject: Re:_

_Greg,_

_I have found it far easier in this world to conceal from my brother anything which is at all important to me. If he knew we had struck up an accord, he would do his level best to pull it down around our ears. I had no intention of insulting you, nor of acting in any way intended to offend. I hope you can understand my position._

_Mycroft_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_29 September 2014 at 15:21_

_Subject: Re:_

_Mycroft,_

_He’s not a kid in the nursery anymore, you do realize that? I’m well used to your brother’s machinations by now. I can take care of myself._

_Greg_

_Would you be interested in dinner?_

_MH_

_{Sent 15:08}_

_Always starving. When?_

_GL_

_{Received 15:10}_

_Is 9 too late?  
MH_

_{Sent 15:40}_

_The Diogenes?_

_GL_

_{Received 15:53}_

_I rather thought_

_French sounded_

_tempting._

_MH  
{Sent 16:01}_

_There is an exquisite bistro_

_I know of near NSY._

_MH_

_{Sent 16:04}_

_Sorry—murder! See_

_you there at 9._

_Greg_

_{Received 20:13}_

“There’s a personal call for you, Mr. Holmes,” Anthea’s voice was crisp and impersonal, but he knew his PA well enough to read sympathy in her tone. Oh Lord, it must be Mummy. He’d known five days was too long to avoid her calls. “It’s Mrs. Holmes.”

          “Thank you, Anthea. Give me five—give me ten minutes.” Briefly squeezing his eyes shut in a bid for patience, Mycroft pressed the flashing button on his phone and lifted the receiver to his ear, “Mummy.”

          “Myc, darling, finally! Good Lord, do you never answer your mobile?”

          “What is it, Mummy?”

          “Father and I have decided we’re having Christmas here this year.”

          There went his plans for a nice, restrained, catered dinner which would see everyone out the door in less than three hours. “Is there a particular reason?”

          “You know how the Cottage is sort of magical, darling—”

          “Places are not magical, Mummy. There is no such thing as magic. You are a mathematician, for God’s sake, use logic!”

          “Pish. It _is_. And I think John and dear Mary could use a good dose of magic…something is very wrong in that marriage.”

          Yes, well, being a lying assassin who puts a bullet in one’s husband’s boyfriend tends to put a strain on even the most congenial of relationships. “It is absolutely none of our business—”

          “—Mycroft—”

          “—and I certainly don’t think Sherlock will be pleased—” Especially not with the idea of having to host his would-be assassin and John’s rather inconvenient wife for the weekend. There were limits.

          “Sherlock is never pleased.”

          Well that much was true. Unless if involved a nice murder. “You’re not going to give up on this, are you?”

          “No,” She was cheerful, “Cancel your stuffy caterers, Myc—”

          “—roft—”

          “—and tell your PA I expect you to be free for three days.”

          “Three…!”

          “Yes, Myc—roft, _three_.” She covered the phone and he heard her mumbling to Father, then she was back. “Oh, Father wants to know if you’ll be bringing a guest? Only we want to be sure and have all the beds aired and plenty of linens and soaps and things.” She was vague, her mind no doubt already on to what was wrong with Mary and John and how to fix it with her magical house and her traditional Christmas puddings.

          “I will be there for at least two days, Mummy, but I cannot guarantee more—no, I simply cannot. And of course I won’t be bringing a guest. When have I ever?” As if he had friends. And if he did he most certainly wouldn’t subject them to his family. Even if he did have a brief and entirely ludicrous vision of seeing Greg at the family table, smiling across at him in the candle light. Perhaps his GP was correct and he _did_ need a holiday. Now that he was hallucinating fanciful visions it might be time to take a few days to himself; and that did _not_ include a Christmas weekend at the Cottage.

          “Oh Mycie, you’ve always been a slow bloomer—remember puberty?”

          Not if he could possibly help it.

          “One day you’ll be ready.” Violet Holmes knew the power of a well-timed and wistful sigh (Sherlock most assuredly got his sense of dramatics from their mother), “I only hope I’ll live long enough to see you happy.”

          “You’ll live forever, if only to torment me.”

          “I love you too, dear.”

 

Merry Christmas, Mycroft!

I hope you’re not in agony

yet. I’m sure you’ll have fun

arguing with Sherlock. Spare

a kind thought for me, stuck in

London, working.

Greg

{Received 12:12}

 

You work entirely too

many holidays, Greg. You

should insist on next year off.

Mycroft

{Sent 12:16}

 

My parents are their usual

maddening selves & even

winding Sherlock up is be-

ginning to pall. I hope your

day is as festive as possible.

Mycroft

{Sent 12:20}

 

[text deleted]

[text deleted]

[text deleted]

[text deleted]

 

_Where ARE you? I_

_thought you had a heli-_

_copter standing by?_

_SH_

_{Received 13:12}_

_You’d best not be stuffing_

_your face with pie._

_SH_

_{Received 13:12}_

_I’m on my way._

_MH_

_{Sent 13:14}_

_ETA 13:30_

_Don’t do_

_anything rash._

_MH_

_{Sent 13:15}_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_26 December 2014 at 14:22_

_Subject: Sherlock_

_Mycroft, what in the hell is going on?! John said Sherlock’s been arrested for murder? This isn’t Moriarity again, is it? Please call me. I’ve tried your phone but it goes directly to voice mail. I went by the Diogenes and got shown the door. Your PA told me you were in meetings all day. I’m going crazy here. Please let me know what’s going on._

_Greg_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_27 December 2014 at 06:06_

_Subject: Re: Sherlock_

_Greg,_

_Your curiosity and concern are understandable, but I cannot discuss this with you. Please have patience._

_Mycroft_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_27 December 2014 at 06:10_

_Subject: Re: Sherlock_

_My curiosity and concern???? I’m trying not to panic here—give me some credit and LET ME IN. This isn’t like before. I’m your friend, Mycroft, yours and Sherlock’s too. I deserve to know what’s going on._

_Greg_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_27 December 2014 at 06:37_

_Subject: Re: Sherlock_

_This is a matter of NATIONAL IMPORTANCE. It has nothing to do with you and I._

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_27 December 2014 at 06:44_

_Subject: Re: Sherlock_

_Please don’t do this to me again. TALK TO ME._

_Mycroft?_

_Greg_

_{Received 07:37}_

_[text deleted]_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_1 January 2015 at 16:27_

_Subject: Re: Sherlock_

_John’s been round. He says Sherlock is leaving the country, on some sort of mission for Queen and Country. I know you’re at the back of this. Why couldn’t you tell me that if John could? I thought we were done with all the games. I thought we were good enough friends for you to stop doing this shite to me. Are you really so bloody committed to your fucking job that you couldn’t be human just for one minute and let me know your brother was alright? Have you even been to see him wherever they have him locked up? Or are you shutting him out the way you are me?_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_1 January 2015 at 17:12_

_Subject: Re: Sherlock_

_These games, as you call them, are my LIFE. I thought you understood the nature of our association. Do not EVER question my love for my brother. You do not know the lengths I have gone to, and will go to, to keep him safe._

_Reign in your pet detective._

_MH_

_{Sent 04:27}_

_He is making a nuisance_

_of himself & he is far too_

_familiar._

_MH_

_{Sent 04:31}_

_What am I supposed to_

_do from this MI6 holding cell?  
SH_

_{Received 05:03}_

_Think of something._

_MH  
{Sent 05:04}_

_Sherlock Holmes <_ [ _sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.com_ ](mailto:sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.com) _>_

_6 January 2015 at 11:53_

_Subject: Rosamund Watson_

_Sherlock,_

_My felicitations on the birth of your goddaughter. Did you tell Doctor Watson his daughter was born on your birthday?_

_Mycroft_

_Mycroft Holmes[m.holmes@gmail.com](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com)_

_6 January 2015 at 12:28_

_Subject: Re: Rosamund Watson_

_Piss off._

_SH_

_[text deleted]_

_[text deleted]_

_[text deleted]_

_You’re welcome,_

_by the way._

_MH_

_{Sent 04:04}_

_For what?_

_SH_

_{Received 04:12}_

_I was instrumental in_

_obtaining your pardon_

_yesterday. You’re welcome._

_MH  
{Sent 04:17}_

_Go inflict yourself on someone else._

_SH_

_{Received 05:37}_

_My hearty congratulations_

_to you & your Sergeant on the _

_successful conclusion of the_

_Riverside Ripper case._

_MH_

_{Sent 16:23}_

_Mummy, cease calling my phone._

_It’s my birthday, not nuclear war._

_MH_

_{Sent 07:47}_

_Sherlock you utter shit—did_

_you steal my nicotine patches?_

_GL_

_{Sent 21:08}_

_You’re meant to be quitting._

_SH_

_{Received 22:26}_

_Yeah—I know— that’s what_

_the patches were for!_

_GL_

_{Sent 22:26}_

_I see from the papers that you_

_testified in court today re the_

_Nevins case. I can only ima-_

_gine how hard it was for you to_

_have to relive it all._

_MH_

_{Sent 21:00}_

_Your name came up—_

_favourably, I might add—_

_at dinner with the Chief_

_Super. Now might be an_

_excellent time to bid for_

_a promotion._

_MH_

_{Sent 23:36}_

_I only mention it_

_since we discussed_

_the feasibility of it_

_some time ago._

_MH_

_{Sent 23:38}_

_Do with it what you will._

_MH_

_{Sent 23:38}_

_Thanks._

_GL_

_{Received 05:56}_

_You’re quite certain?_

_MH_

_{Sent 13:57}_

_YES_

_SH_

_{Received 14:01}_

_We’ll meet you there._

_MH_

_{Sent 14:22}_

**_In Sympathy for Your Loss_ **

****

_28 July 2015_

_John,_

_Please accept my condolences on the loss of your wife. Mary was a brave and energetic woman, who left her mark on this world. I know you and young Rosamund will miss her presence daily, and words are an empty comfort, but please understand how deeply, deeply sorry I am for everything that happened. Yes, as you said, perhaps it might have been easier if you’d never met my brother, and understandably it might be difficult—if not impossible—for you to forgive him, but I hope that you have not hardened your heart against him completely. He is more distraught than I have seen him since he was a child._

_Please let me know if there is any way I can be of assistance._

_Mycroft Holmes_

_You & your brother can leave _

_me alone.That’s how you can_

_assist me._

  1. _Watson_



_{Received 09:01}_

_I didn’t LOSE her._

_She was murdered._

  1. _Watson_



_{Received 09:02}_

_Sherlock—ANSWER YOUR PHONE._

_MH_

_{Sent 23:22}_

_Greg…I realize I’m quite the_

_last person you wish to hear_

_from,but please check in on_

_Sherlock for me. He’s refusing_

_my calls & bolted the door_

_against me when I attempted_

_to visit._

_MH_

_{Sent 24:01}_

_Mrs. Hudson called me a snake_

_and hit me with a teaspoon._

_MH_

_{Sent 24:02}_

_He looks like death & he was either_

_off his tits or in one of his manic_

_phases...kicked me out. Mrs. H says_

_he’s been up for days._

_GL  
{Received 06:00}_

_I was polite & non-snaky & _

_got tea instead of lambasted_

_w/ a spoon._

_GL_

_{Received 06:06}_

_Thank you. You are a good friend._

_MH_

_{Sent 07:10}_

_Yeah. I can be—when people let_

_me._

_GL_

_{Received 11:33}_

_I did not wish to start an_

_argument. Thank you again._

_MH_

_{Sent 14:12}_

_I’ll swing back by after my shift._

_I’ll call you._

_Greg_

_{Received 15:45}_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_13 August 2015 at 9:20_

_Subject: Last Night_

_You are more generous than I deserve._

_Mycroft_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_13 August 2015 at 10:02_

_Subject: Re: Last Night_

_I know._

_Greg_

_Mate, give me a call if you_

_ever need to talk—or just_

_a drink._

_Greg_

_{Sent 14:12}_

_Ta._

_John_

_{Received 15:07}_

_Sorry I had to cxl on you. Make_

_it up by buying you a very, very_

_late dinner?_

_Greg_

_{Received 17:29}_

_It would have to be very, very,_

_very late as I’m stuck in a rather_

_delicate meeting until at least_

_9PM & then have a sizeable_

_load of paperwork to tackle._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 17:48}_

_I can swing by your bunker with beer,_

_pizza and a smile…I promise I won’t_

_peek at your files if you promise to eat_

_an actual meal._

_Greg_

_{Received 18:02}_

_Heavens man, are you TRYING to give_

_us both heartburn?_

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 18:06}_

_I want the thin-crust Sicilian we had before._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 18:06}_

_Live dangerously—See you at 9:15ish._

_Greg_

_{Received 20:00}_

_You cannot be precise down to the min-_

_ute and then tack “ish” on the end, man._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 20:09}_

_I really must stop acting as if I_

_am taking notes & actually attend _

_to what the PM is saying._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 20:13}_

_Shall we pretend to be sensible_

_adults & have salad as well???_

_Greg_

_{Received 20:48}_

_In for a penny...let’s be bad & _

_just have meat. Nearly done—_

_Anthea will let you into my office._

_Ignore her if she’s disgruntled; I_

_insisted she remain until you arr-_

_ived in case I was delayed._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 21:12}_

_You’re the only person I know_

_who uses semi-colons in text._

_Greg_

_{Received 21:13}_

_I’ve brought her a massive fudgy_

_brownie & she is mildly pleased._

_Greg_

_{Received 21:17}_

_Why does my PA get a brownie?_

_Where is MY brownie?_

_{Sent 21:18}_

_Calm down—I brought_

_you one as well XD_

_Greg_

_{Received 21:19}_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_3 October 2015 at 10:22_

_Subject:_

_Mycroft—_

_They’re making me do performance reviews of my team and I’m running out of creative ways to say people are good at their jobs & need to be left alone rather than drowned in unnecessary paperwork. Help._

_Yours in desperation,_

_Greg_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_3 October 2015 at 11:56_

_Subject:_

_Attachment: Suggestions.docx (10 KB)_

_Greg,_

_I have attached a document which you may find helpful. Also, I may have gone rather overboard…_

_Yours in wordiness,_

_Mycroft_

_On a whim I purchased a pair of_

_tickets to a film noir night at the_

_Odeon. Would you care to join_

_me?It is the Friday after next._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 07:17}_

_I didn’t know you did whims._

_Greg_

_{Received 08:39}_

_It is unprecedented in our lifetime._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 08:44}_

_Then how can I say no?_

_Greg_

_{Received 08:47}_

_Mycroft Holmes < _ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_2 November 2015 at 19:39_

_Subject: My promotion_

_Mycroft,_

_They turned me down. Apparently I’m a bit too much of a rogue element despite being a great copper. Translation: I give your brother too much lee-way. I don’t regret it though…much of a giant prick as he can be, he closes the cases I can’t. First and foremost I’m here for the victims and their families, so if I have to take the flak for pulling him in, along with the wins when we close the cases, I will._

_The pay rise would have been nice._

_Oh who am I kidding…I’m not ready for that much desk time yet. Gotta keep my bum from spreading any more!_

_Now I don’t want you sticking your oar in, alright? I don’t need any special favours, and I don’t need people thinking I’m your trick monkey. I’ll reapply in a few years._

_I guess those celebratory drinks you mentioned are out._

_Greg_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_2 November 2015 at 21:44_

_Subject: Re: My promotion_

_Greg,_

_Clearly the upper echelons of NSY are peopled with idiots. Your place is not among them, but leading your team, affecting the kind of change you love. Despite the lack of a rise in pay, I suspect this situation actually has the power to make you happier in the long run._

_We could always toast your good fortune in avoiding a flat bum. Or…dinner? Le Renard seemed to meet with your approval._

_Mycroft_

_Mycroft Holmes < _ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_2 November 2015 at 21:50_

_Subject: Re: My promotion_

_My—_

_That French place was top notch. Or we could order in to mine? You’ve not really gotten to see more than the entry to my place since you had to take an emergency call last time. There’s a pretty nice Thai place downstairs, or there’s Italian, Spanish and seafood all within walking distance. I’ll even spring for the good whiskey and pick up my socks._

_Is tomorrow too soon?_

_g_

_Greg Lestrade <_ [ _glestrade@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:glestrade@hotmail.com) _>_

_2 November 2015 at 22:02_

_Subject: Re: My promotion_

_g(reg),_

_I’m quite partial to Thai, and I insist on bringing the libations—consider it my gift to you. Shall we say tomorrow at 7:30?_

_My(croft)_

_Mycroft Holmes < _ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_2 November 2015 at 22:12_

_Subject: Re: My promotion_

_My…_

_It’s a date._

_:-)_

          “Anthea?”

          “Yes, sir?”

          “It appears that tomorrow evening I shan’t be available to attend Lady Smallwood’s dinner party. Please extend my regrets and have flowers delivered—something tasteful but not too effusive—and be aware that I shall be leaving strictly at six.” He kept his head down, willing the heat in his ears to subside.

          “Tasteful and restrained—done.” Anthea started to close the door but before he was quite in the clear, it swung back open and Mycroft made himself look up with an expression of bland inquiry. “And might I say, sir, congratulations to Inspector Lestrade?”

          His nostrils flared slightly. “Have you been reading my personal correspondence?”

          The eye roll was present in spirit if not in fact. “You mentioned he was anticipating an answer this week…I merely extrapolated that your change in plans and an early evening meant he had good news.”

          “Of a sort.”

          “Shall I arrange for something tasteful but not too effusive to be delivered to his office? Cigars, perhaps?”

          Oh her innocent expression was really asking too much. “No, thank  you, Anthea. I shall attend to it myself,” Picking his Mont Blanc pen up dismissively, “Thank you.”

 

_I’m bored._

_SH_

_{Received 17:13}_

_Too bad, I’m literally out the_

_door. It will have to keep until morning._

_GL_

_{Sent 17:15}_

_Hope you like it spicy!_

_GL_

_{Sent 17:16}_

_Are you sexting me? Don’t._

_SH_

_{Received 17:20}_

_Shit! That wasn’t meant for you._

_Sorry. Ignore that._

_GL_

_{Sent 17:25}_

_Have you ignored my boredom in_

_favour of sex, Lestrade?This is an_

_outrage! I demand you return to_

_NSY & satisfy me!  
SH_

_{Received 17:26}_

_Now whos sexting?  
GL_

_{Sent 17:51}_

_Thanks again for last night—I don’t_

_think I would have had any more fun_

_if I’d been celebrating an actual promo-_

_tion._

_Greg_

_{Received 08:02}_

_It was my pleasure,Greg. Thank you_

_again for accommodating me with my_

_whim._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 08:22}_

_My—having dinner catered by your_

_favourite chef is more than a whim!_

_Greg_

_{Received 08:25}_

_And that makes two whims in one month…_

_think you might be setting a precedent…_

_But a delicious one. And there were so many_

_leftovers that I brought some in to work_

_& the team is going to be spoiled come lunch time._

_Greg_

_{Received 08:28}_

_His cuisine is a particular weakness of mine._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 10:11}_

_John, mate, haven’t heard from you in a_

_while—fancy a drink this weekend?  
Greg_

_{Sent 18:19}_

_I’ve got no one to watch Rosie._

_Maybe some other time?_

_John_

_{Received 19:05}_

_I can come by yours…_

_Greg_

_{Sent 19:11}_

_The flat is not fit for company—_

_not even yours. Some other time?_

_John_

_{Received 19:59}_

_Ha bloody ha. That’s fine. Just…_

_you gotta get out sometime, right?_

_Greg_

_{Sent 20:07}_

_I need everything you can find_

_on Culverton Smith._

_SH_

_{Received 03:13}_

_Haven’t you had enough of_

_pulling dragon’s tails whilst_

_they sleep?_

_MH_

_{Sent 04:45}_

_If you know what he’s capable_

_of and have done nothing…_

_SH_

_{Received 05:36}_

_I don’t know anything. What_

_are you implying?_

_MH_

_{Sent 05:37}_

_Sherlock, pick up your phone._

_MH_

_{Sent 05:40}_

_SHERLOCK!_  
MH  
{Sent 05:49}

_Kindly do not hare off after_

_a megalomaniac alone. I can’t_

_take a repeat of Magnussen._

_MH_

_{Sent 06:00}_

_At least take John Watson_

_with you if you’re on some mad_

_crusade._

_MH_

_{Sent 06:12}_

_Christ, John, he’s in hospital_

_AGAIN?_

_GL_

_{Sent 18:44}_

_He’s finally lost it Greg. And_

_what’s worse…he’s nearly_

_tipped me into madness with_

_him._

_John_

_{Received 19:02}_

_Pick up your phone & call me_

_when you can. I don’t know what’s_

_going on, but between Sherlock, your_

_vague texts & Mycroft’s sudden dis-_

_appearance, I’ve got the willies._

_Greg_

_{Sent 19:17}_

_Mycroft, call me._

_Greg_

_{Received 23:27}_

_Mycroft, I’ve got Sherlock sitting_

_duty today from 7-10. Any chance you_

_might stop by?  
Greg_

_{Received 12:28}_

_You talked to Sherlock lately?_

_Greg_

_{Sent 20:15}_

_Sherlock are you at baker st?_

_GL_

_{Sent 14:29}_

_ANSWER YOUR PHONE!!!!!!_

_GL_

_{Sent 14:34}_

_John have you talked to Sherlock_

_or Mrs H today?_

_GL_

_{Sent 14:36}_

_Don’t turn on the news. Call me first._

_GL_

_{Sent 14:37}_

 

_Mycroft have you heard from_

_Sherlock? Just heard there was_

_some kind of incident on Baker St._

_On my way now._

_Greg_

_{Received 14:44}_

_Trying to reach John before he_

_hears something on the news._

_No answer._

_GL_

_{Received 14:50}_

_I’m with Sherlock & John. Please _

_do not let ANYONE know we are_

_alive. One of us will call you if poss-_

_ible. Please look after Rosamund & _

_Mrs. Hudson._

_Mycroft_

_{Sent 15:03}_

_What the actual FUCK My?  
Greg _

_{Received 15:03}_

_You’d better be alive. I’m officially_

_off this case & no one is telling me _

_anything._

_Greg_

_{Received 18:46}_

_Sheppherd just threatened me with_

_a suspension if I didn’t stop asking_

_questions. I’m owed a whiskey_

_& an explanation is all I’m_

_saying._

_Greg_

_{Received 23:02}_

Mycroft couldn’t stop shaking. It wasn’t all that cold—or at least, he didn’t think it was, hard to tell when he was so numb—but he was trembling as if he’d stepped into a snow storm in his pants. The paramedic had wrapped him in a bright orange shock blanket—having to insist twice that he keep it on—despite the fact that he was perfectly in control of himself. It was actually quite preposterous for them to be treating him as if he were in shock. He was Mycroft Holmes, the Ice Man, Bloody Holmes, That Machine. He was not at the mercy of his emotions—they were at his mercy.

          And after all, it was not as if anything had happened to him. _He_ had escaped without so much as a scratch…not a hair out of place, even though people around him had died, even though he had nearly, through his own refusal to do so, pushed Doctor Watson to murdering a man…no, he was fine. A night in a solitary cell in an island fortress for the criminally insane was not even a blip on his emotional landscape.

          The paramedic addressed him, but he couldn’t hear over the rotors. No doubt they were coming in for a landing. Bart’s, no doubt; he would presumably be declared fit and released. Answers would be demanded, and he mustn’t waste any time with frivolous trips to the A&E. And they would be frivolous since he was absolutely fine.

          No one else seemed to be of the same mind, however, and nearly a half hour later he found himself sitting on the edge of an exam table, arguing quietly but vociferously with the young physician who was attempting to treat him as if he had undergone some sort of _ordeal_. On the verge of unleashing a viciously Holmesian tirade, Mycroft was arrested by the sound of a very familiar voice.

          Oh no. Oh please no. Not now. He wasn’t _ready_. He would never be ready for this. _You knew this moment was coming_.

          “Mr. Holmes, I really must insist—”

          “Excuse me—Doctor? Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade…I need a moment alone with Mr. Holmes…if you could just step over here.” Cool and collected, the older man flashed his warrant card, edged the protesting young man out of the cubicle and pulled the curtain. He swung back around to Mycroft, eyes softening.

          _Greg you wonderful, ridiculous man, you’ve come to save me. But I’m not a damsel in distress. I am the dragon. And I’ve brought this on myself._ “Greg—”

          He stepped in close, not stopping, actually causing Mycroft to rear back slightly in alarm. Crowding right into his personal space, literally stepping in between his slightly spread legs, Greg opened his arms and gathered Mycroft to him and _hugged_. Greg hugged him as he had not been hugged—had not allowed himself to be hugged—in twenty years. Strong arms held him fast to Greg’s slightly shorter and broader frame, and even in his distress, Mycroft was aware of the worn leather of Greg’s trench coat, the faint traces of Greg’s cologne, the heat of Greg’s body—dear God the sheer animal heat of the man—and his prickly-rough jaw and the solid, soothing presence of his capable hands spread on Mycroft’s back.

          It took a moment to realize the DI was murmuring, “Christ, My…Christ almighty…”

          A series of shallow breaths did nothing to ease his light-headedness, nor to clear his fogged thoughts. It occurred to Mycroft how blessedly peaceful it would be, how stupendously wonderful, if he could just melt into Greg’s embrace and escape all that was to come. No, it had nothing to do with escape (well, not entirely). It would be wonderful for its own sake. Full stop.

          Selfishly (as though that would come as a shock to anyone), Mycroft held on just a moment more, daring to let his face find the natural curve of Greg’s neck. He breathed in his scent (detergent, leather, Calvin Klein—the adorable Neanderthal, cigarettes and coffee) and absorbed his warmth and protection and comfort and memorized the feel of his body against his own.

          He was cracking.

          He was cracking.

          Hold firm.

          “They wouldn’t let me on the island,” Greg said in a rough tone, pulling back enough that he could scan Mycroft’s face, “I called Anthea and even she couldn’t get me to you.” He exhaled shakily, and suddenly pulled Mycroft back in for an even tighter hug, voice muffled against his shoulder, “Sherlock sent me to look after you.”

          Oh dear _God_ , he was cracking.

          There were nuclear reactors in meltdown which underwent less stress than he, Mycroft Holmes, was currently experiencing. The bid to hang onto the last vestige of kindness and support he could reasonably expect was growing stale. He was desperate to commit to memory the shape and weight of Greg in his arms, even as he knew the time had come to step back and swiftly rebuild his armor. But oh God, how exquisite it felt to just stay safe here for the moment, their hearts beating together.

          It would shortly be naught but a very bittersweet memory. He had a painful truth to share, and after that…well, his fledgling…whatever…with the good Detective would be a thing of the past.

 

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_15 November 2015 at 10:55_

_Subject: Please_

_My,_

_Please let me know you’re okay. I’ve left approximately fifty messages on your phone and now it’s telling me the number is blocked. I’ll stop bugging you if you just let me know you’re okay._

_I don’t need to know what brought this all on…your explanation the other night didn’t make much sense, you were obviously distraught, but fuck that. Just let me know you’re alright._

_And if you’re not alright, let me HELP YOU._

_Greg_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_15 November 2015 at 11:32_

_Subject: Re: Please_

_My,_

_I’m genuinely worried about you. Sherlock mentioned you’d gotten sort of lambasted by your parents and he hadn’t seen you. I know you’ve got to be bothered by all this (whatever the fuck all “this” is), even if you don’t want to admit it. Never mind me or what I’ve done to piss you off, just let me know you’re alive and not suicidal or I’ll call the Riot Squad on you, so help me god._

_Greg_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_15 November 2015 at 13:09_

_Subject: Re: Please_

_Please_

_Mycroft Holmes <_ [ _m.holmes@gmail.com_ ](mailto:m.holmes@gmail.com) _>_

_15 November 2015 at 17:47_

_Subject: Re: Please_

_Sherlock told me he would talk to you. Is this what you wanted? For me to send your brother after you?_

_He’s alive. He asks that you cease_

_your attempts to contact him._

_SH_

_{Received 22:14}_

_Thank you, Sherlock._

_GL_

_{Sent 22:15}_

_I’m sorry, Greg._

_SH_

_{Received 22:21}_

_For what it’s worth—I think_

_you might have made him happy._

_SH_

_{Received 22:33}_

_And if you dare tell ANYONE_

_that I said that, I’ll make Mor-_

_iarity look like a walk in the park._

_SH_

_{Received 22:33}_

_I’ve passed on your message._

_SH_

_{Received 22:35}_

_You’re making a mistake._

_SH_

_{Received 22:36}_

_Though it pains me to acknowledge_

_you have needs, I understand the pain_

_of losing someone capable of instilling_

_clarity._

_SH_

_{Received 22:39}_

_Greg might have made you almost human._

_SH_

_{Received 22:41}_

_Thank you, little brother. Your comments_

_have been noted._

_MH_

_{Sent 22:46}_

_Don’t mention it._

_SH_

_{Received 22:49}_

_Honestly, never mention it._

_SH_

_{Received 22:51}_

_Yes, THANK YOU SHERLOCK._

_MH_

_{Sent 22:54}_

**_~~DI G. Lestrade~~ _ **

**_~~NSY- Serious Crimes~~ _ **

_3 Dec 2015_

_My,_

_I’ve given up on the emails. You might have blocked me, I don’t know, but I’m guessing probably so, if only so you don’t have to be bombarded by multiple emails a day from me. Sorry about that, by the way. Thought it might work._

_Maybe you’ll never get this—I suppose Anthea might just toss it— or maybe you’ll get it and never read it. Or read it and ignore it. I guess that part is out of my hands. All I can control now is what I say._

_And what I say is that I just had a very interesting, very long, and very harrowing conversation with John Watson._

_He talked to me as a friend, not as an officer of the law, and that’s how I listened. That’s how it will stay. I’m not talking to you as DI Lestrade, I’m talking to you as your friend Greg. That’s how I’ve been talking to you for a long time, if only you’d been paying attention. And for what it’s worth, if you’d wanted more…I would have been in, all the way. Fuck, that scares me. I’ve never been ready to open myself up to anyone else that way, ever, in my life. Not even my ex-wife._

_I feel like you know me—ME. As if you know me the way no one ever has or can. And now that you’re gone, I’m drifting like a goddamned ghost._

_Until all this happened…somehow I felt there was time. Time to let myself fall in love._

_No, that’s a lie._

_There was no “let” about it. I was already halfway there. Maybe I’m as much of an imbecile as Sherlock says, because I sort of thought you were willing to meet me halfway._

_You challenged me from the beginning, never made anything easy. And God help me, I liked that just as much as the times when you slipped into my life as if you’d always been there. We could have been so good together, I think. Good for one another. Not always easy—that’s just not our way—but good. Great._

_And now, when you’re fucking hurting and alone and refusing to let anyone near, I can’t do anything for you except to email fifty times a day, and drive Sherlock up the wall with my questions, and walk up and down out front of the Diogenes in the hopes that you might be coming or going. I thought about bribing Anthea to let me in to see you, but in the end I respected your right to work through this without me in your face. It was one of the hardest things I’ve done (may have been a bit easier due to the fact that I’m terrified of Anthea and feel fairly certain she’d disappear me somewhere where no one would ever find me—does it offend you to know I’m more scared of her than I am of you?) Also I don’t think a brownie will be enough this time._

_I hate to think of you alone right now. You’ve been alone so long, My._

_I’d like to strangle your parents. Literally strangle them. Just wrap my hands tight around their necks and scare the piss out of them as they see their lives flash before them. Does that surprise you? Did you read this deep rage inside me the first time we met? I’m just getting comfortable with it, personally. I’ve suspected it was there—on those dark nights after I’ve seen some of the most appalling shit people can do to one another—I could have snapped and done the unthinkable. I understand why some of the old timers used any means necessary to get a confession._

_Does that shock you? Did you think I was somehow above all that? Yeah…I used to think I was too._

_You were a kid, My, and the shit you had to deal with as a kid? That’s PTSD right there. I don’t care how smart you were, it was too much to put you through. And then when you were still just a kid you were thrust into holding onto this enormous, weighty secret. You’ve been done a huge disservice, My, by your parents and by that twat Uncle Rudy. So yeah, I’d like to make them think their lives are ending, the way they ended your childhood…You shouldn’t have been left to carry this secret, nor to carry the weight of watching over Sherlock for twenty-odd years. Don’t think I’ve never wondered why your parents leave it all to you._

_Maybe you didn’t always make the best decisions—maybe you focused too much with your brain, and not enough with your heart—but you were conditioned to act that way. I mean, from what John shared, retreating into your intellect to the exclusion of emotions was a defensive move for you, considering everything. And instead of dealing with it, instead of helping you, helping Sherlock, they just…_

_God, I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t mean to turn this into a revenge theme against your parents. I’m just bloody furious and I feel helpless and hopeless and Jesus Christ I miss you. You’ve been part of the landscape of my life for nearly fourteen years and I had grown to think you’d always be there. Losing you feels oddly like losing a limb. I try to walk away and there’s nothing holding me up._

_Fuck, this may be the most depressing letter I’ve ever written._

_It’s almost the Christmas season and I’ve never felt less like celebrating. The magic is all gone, this time for real. (Would it be too much to say that I thought we could help each other find it? This year, I thought maybe…after all our calls and emails…our drinks and the way your eyes would strip me to the bone as you looked at me over your drink—as if you wanted to pull me close and push me away at the same time— and then those mercurial eyes of yours would put me back together, better than before. After our dinner, sitting there late into the night on my shitty sofa…I let myself dream about what this Christmas could be like, with you)_

_If you get this, please know that I’m thinking about you—daily—and that I worry for you, and I just want you to find some peace and happiness._

_Love, Greg_

          “G’night boss!” Donovan called, waving over her shoulder as she click-clacked her way across the echoing expanse of the NSY car park toward her rather rattletrap Toyota.

          “’night,” he called with forced cheer. The smile fell off his face and he stood for a minute, watching her go, before he reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a slightly crushed pack of Marlboros and sparked up. Gratefully polluting his lungs, he headed toward his own car; it was late on a Friday and he had the entire weekend ahead of him to smoke too much, drink to excess, wallow in self-pity and in general wreck himself for Monday.

          Rather than risk encountering any holiday music, he left the radio off, feeling tension unspool slightly as he sank into the silence of his car and gripped the steering wheel before he exhaled and started the car. It had been a long couple of weeks and he was incredibly grateful to be faced with two days off—even if all he intended on doing with them was make bad decisions. It had been a little more than two weeks since he’d sent his letter to Mycroft; more than enough time for him to receive it.

          Not a word.

          Hardly surprising. The man was clearly labouring under a weight of emotions of Herculean strength, and grappling with both personal and professional fallout from the fuckery at Sherrinford. Even if he had been so inclined, he likely hadn’t the time to set aside for a pushy DI. And of course he wouldn’t be so inclined. He’d made that much clear that night at the hospital. Even if his body had been telegraphing reluctance, his demeanour and words had overridden any softer impulse lurking beneath the surface.

          Greg still hoped though. Foolishly. Fool-heartedly.

          He considered stopping for dinner, but ultimately decided he wanted to be home more than anything. If there was nothing in the freezer, he could order in. Or just drink his meal. That had its merits, too.

          Once to his street, he found a slightly too small parking space several buildings down and clipped the kerb four times before he managed to squeeze in. Locking up, he strode towards his building, eyes on the toes of his shoes as he fumbled through his keys for the one to the street entry.

          “Greg.”

          Keys falling from numb fingers, Greg looked up, heart swooping in his chest as if it had been snagged in the talons of a bird of prey. It certainly felt as if it was being shredded by sharp blades. Stupidly he stared at Mycroft, his mouth fallen slightly open. _Say something._ It took another minute before he could breathe properly, swallow down fragile hope and strangled pain long enough to say, “My…”

          The younger man stepped out of the shadows next to the short flight of stairs, and asked gently, almost diffidently, “Am I?”

          “…are you what?” Oh God, he’d lost the thread of conversation, because he had no idea what Mycroft was asking him.

          It was too dark to be certain, but he had the rather stunned feeling that Mycroft Holmes was turning pink. “Am I yours?”

          _Yes. No. Are you insane that you have to ask? Didn’t I lay myself completely on the line in that godawful letter?_ Are _you insane, that you come here and ask me that after all this time? You shut me out, right out in the cold, My, and now you show up here unannounced, at half nine on a Friday, two weeks before Christmas, to ask me if you’re mine?_

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, more gently still, halting just out of reach, and then stepping forward and closing the distance. “Greg, I owe you more apologies than I shall be able to tender in one lifetime, but I’d like—” he paused, took a deep breath, and one gloved hand came out and tentatively took Greg’s, Mycroft’s warmth bleeding through despite the barrier of leather, “You’re right of course, it is late and it is dreadfully rude of me to shut you out and then show up unannounced—” His expression altered  and he moved closer so he could peer into Greg’s face, “Greg, what’s wrong?”

          “Did I just say all that out loud?”

          A hint of amusement touched his pale face, “Yes.” The amusement faded. “Did you mean all of it?”

          “I don’t know…maybe.” Greg looked down at the long fingers, holding his with surprising tenderness, “Why are you here?” Part of him—the stupid, lusty, easily distracted part—was focused on those sinfully soft, supple black leather gloves, and how good they felt touching him. It would be even better without the gloves. Maybe. The gloves were pretty good.

          “I got your letter.”

          Oh right, focus. He waited. He’d stripped himself down to the essential parts in his letter—opened himself up and offered it all to Mycroft. Maybe it was bullheaded and idiotic, but he wanted to make him work for it. _My, you have to show me something real—show me how you feel and let me know I’m not alone_.

          “Might we go inside?” Mycroft looked around uneasily, as though they had drawn a crowd.

          Greg hardened his heart. “No…you still haven’t actually told me why you’re here.”

          Mycroft sighed, and although he tried to hide it, and although his face flinched as though he’d forgotten something, and then smoothed out unnaturally before assuming a faintly horrific smile (Greg was fascinated and amused to see him physically remind himself to be pleasant), he didn’t insist they move inside. “I realize Christmas is several weeks away, but I got you something.” With his free hand he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a slim box. A jeweler’s box. Not, Greg was relieved to see, a ring box, but about the size you might find a watch in.

          “Uh…Mycroft…”

          “It’s nothing excessive, I assure you.” He smiled, clearly nervous (and just when had he become an expert on Mycroft Holmes’ smiles?), and extended it, “Please, open it.” With clear reluctance, he released Greg’s hand, _nononono_ , and gestured for him to open it.

          Maybe he was about to get a gold-plated watch— _for services rendered_ —and be tendered the thanks of the Holmes family for shepherding Sherlock all these years. Maybe this was a classy kiss off; a please-desist-stalking-me-you-peasant farewell gift. Greg opened it and stared inside, utterly baffled for a moment, and then fished out one of the two identical items inside. Holding it up to the light of the security lamp over the door, he examined it more closely.

          It was a small paper umbrella. The kind you might find in a cocktail bar. There was another just like it—blue, actually, where this one was red—in the box. Why in the world was Mycroft giving him— “You once offered,” Mycroft said in a slightly unsteady voice, “To _pop a brolly_ in my Mai Tai, if ever I stopped by your beach…” He reached into the box and pulled out the blue umbrella, the tiny, silly, fragile kind they put in cocktails, and popped it open with a tiny snick. “I spent years denying I even wanted to acknowledge that your beach was wildly appealing…resisted the idea of basking in the glorious sun that was Greg Lestrade…fought quite vigorously against being charmed by your appeal,” He stopped, looked up from the foolish umbrella and directly into Greg’s dazed eyes, “After…after Sherrinford, I was quite determined to push you away with both hands, for your own good, if no one else’s.”

          Greg held his breath as Mycroft stepped closer, toes nudging his own, and found his hands reaching for Mycroft. “I was absolutely committed to doing one noble thing: giving up the possibility of you.”

          “You idiot,” Greg said, before he could stop himself. His hands were on Mycroft’s waist inside his open coat, and the heat, the nearness of him felt so wonderful he wanted to drop to his knees and thank the fates for this chance.

          “I know.” Mycroft looked amused, although it was wobbly around the edges, “Quite. But, you see, in all my posturing to be a good man—the kind of man who would step aside because it was the right thing to do…the kind who would take his filth and his baggage and his disasters and recede into the shadows…the kind who would allow you to find happiness with someone worthy of you—I forgot one thing.”

          His lips were quite near, their faces almost touching, and it was clear Mycroft Holmes no longer cared that they were on a public road in full view of passersby. Greg hoped he said whatever it was he was rambling on about before he devoured the man’s mouth. “Which was?” He asked just to hurry things along.

          “I am…” Mycroft brushed Greg’s cheek lightly with the tip of his magnificent nose, and brushed a thumb over his cheek, the umbrella catching against his stubble and going unheeded by them both, “…not…” he lowered his head that two tiny little inches and gazed intently at Greg with his mesmerizing gray eyes, “…a noble man.”

          “Thank Christ for that,” Greg sighed, and pulled him down by his tie as their lips crashed sweetly together. Oh fucking hell…it was even better than he had let himself dream. If Greg were a teenage girl and given to daydreaming about kissing the man he was crushing on, he might have pictured it going a little more slowly, sedately even.

          It started out tender, but between one hastily snatched breath and the next, they kindled something hotter and more dangerous between them. The sweetness fled in the face of their hunger, and only the last vestiges of good sense had Greg pulling away. He registered the look of devastation on Mycroft’s face and said, “God, no—no, no, no, sweet, not that. Come here.” And he hauled him up the stairs and scrabbled with the lock, and fell gratefully inside the tiny vestibule. Determined to erase forever the doubt which fed the look on Mycroft’s face when he pulled away, Greg spun him into the wall and pressed his body to Mycroft’s from knee to neck and dove back into the kiss.

          Blunt fingernails caught at the roughness of his five o’clock shadow, his own hands tunneled into Mycroft’s silky hair and they plunged together, tongues tangling greedily as Greg slid a knee between Mycroft’s thighs and laid himself along the other man as if only full-body contact would hold him up. Mycroft gasped, head falling back against the wall as Greg pressed closer, and presented with that long, proud throat, Greg eagerly sucked a mark into the pale skin, humming happily when Mycroft forgot himself enough to moan quite wantonly. “Fuck, we need to stop,” Greg groaned, nibbling on the tender skin, “At least we should be able to make it inside my front door.”

          “I’ve wanted to touch you like this for _years_ ,” Mycroft gasped, pulling Greg’s shirt tail out of his trousers with greedy hands, “And I never thought I would see you again…grant me a little impulsivity.”

          “I’ll grant you anything,” Greg promised, abandoning good sense to take Mycroft’s lips in a ferocious kiss, one hand sliding around to ride the crest of Mycroft’s arse and the other holding the back of his head so he couldn’t get away from his kisses—not that Mycroft was trying.

          “I was—” Mycroft broke off and panted shallowly as Greg’s hand slipped down and palmed his arse cheek through his trousers, “—I was going to be _romantic!_ ” He ran greedy hands up Greg’s back, fingers digging in and pulling him even more tightly against him, “Entreating…” His lips crushed Greg’s, bruising force that should have hurt, but instead fanned their need higher, “…sentimental, for God’s sake!”

          “You showed up with a tiny umbrella and called me a glorious sun,” Greg said a trifle wildly, pulling his head back and giving Mycroft a loving glare, “You nailed romantic, entreating and sentimental in one go…” he laughed despite himself, “Trust a Holmes to be efficient in matters of the heart.”

          Something about his words sent Mycroft into a frenzy, a low whine coming from deep in his throat, before he attacked Greg’s mouth with fervor, and despite being the one pinned against the wall, suddenly he was in command. Greg decided he liked it—a hell of a lot. Especially when Mycroft’s hands scratched down his bare back under the shambles of his shirt, and grasped his arse as if someone were trying to take it from him; no one had ever before tried to keep him so jealously, guard him so thoroughly, and Greg responded to the clear possessiveness.

          “Mr. Lestrade,” a heavily accented voice rumbled with annoyance, “do you and your friend mind?”

          The intrusion of someone else in their space broke them apart with a shock; Mycroft appeared ready to push Greg bodily away from him. Greg held firm—not only because Mycroft felt glorious, but because he was embarrassingly erect and didn’t really need to increase the awkwardness of future encounters with his neighbor by flashing him an eyeful of (clothed) dick. “Mr. Shah,” Greg gurgled, pinching Mycroft when he tried to wriggle away. “I’m so sorry—we didn’t mean to disturb you.”

          “You are not disturbing me,” he snorted, “You are blocking my access to my post box.” He gesture to the wall of postal boxes they were plastered against, “Please have the courtesy to do your necking over there.” He pointed at the opposite wall.

          “Erm…sorry.” Greg shuffled back, tugging Mycroft with him.

          “So sorry,” Mycroft gasped, sounding as if he were on the verge of either laughter or hysteria.

          “We’ll just…” Greg held onto Mycroft’s hand and pulled him after him up the staircase, “Right. Goodnight, Mr. Shah.”

          “Good night, Mr. Lestrade.” He peered up at them from under formidable brows, “Good night, Mr. Lestrade’s friend.”

          “Good night, Mr. Shah,” Mycroft replied, exquisitely polite.

          They managed to keep from giggling until they were in Greg’s flat, but as soon as the door closed behind them they collapsed against it, breathless with laughter. Mycroft’s eyes caught his and Greg felt amusement being replaced by a forceful return of lust, leavened with a huge wave of tenderness and excitement.  Oh God…Mycroft Holmes was in his flat and looking at him as if he were a gift under the Christmas tree.

          “The way you look at me, Gregory…” Mycroft murmured, as if reading his mind, “Do you know how long I’ve driven myself mad, wondering if I was misinterpreting your looks and words and actions?”

          “About as long as I have, I suspect,” Greg admitted, letting his head fall back against the door and smiling at Mycroft. “I’d say we’ve both been cowardly…” he straightened, walked with deliberation the few steps that separated them, and smiled up into Mycroft’s face, smoothing a hand up Mycroft’s wrinkled shirt front and brushing his fingers over that proud jaw. Cupping Mycroft’s silk-smooth cheek in his hand, Greg moved in close enough to kiss, and with his lips almost brushing the younger man’s, he murmured, “Shall we be brave together?”

          “What—what had you in mind?” Mycroft asked around a heavy swallow. His pupils were consuming his stormy irises and there was a definite flush of sexual need suffusing his normally fair skin.

          “We go all in…no subterfuge, no hesitation…” Greg had to pause and swallow back his own overwhelming emotions. God, he wanted to get this _right_. It had taken them years to get here, and part of him was terrified that the pendulum was once more going to swing back in the opposite direction. “Full steam ahead with a relationship and no running this time…” he stretched up to close the slight difference in their height, nerve endings going electric with Mycroft’s nearness, “If we panic, we tell the other. If we lose our tempers, we fight it out…” he brushed his lips against Mycroft’s, delighting in the hum it inspired, but moved back before Mycroft could deepen the kiss, “you’re worth fighting for, Mycroft Holmes.”

          Maybe a kiss wasn’t a proper answer. Maybe he should insist on him giving his word. It might be a mistake not to make it clear that Mycroft was agreeing. But Greg decided that Mycroft Holmes might not be used to verbalizing his emotions just yet, and he would never turn down a kiss. Besides, if they were very, very lucky, and worked hard…they might just have years for Mycroft to learn. He could be patient.

          When the need for air drove them apart, Mycroft pressed his forehead to Greg’s and breathed roughly, hands continuing to stroke up and down his body as if compelled to keep touching him. “I’d like that more than I can express, Gregory…and if I might…I’d like to say that, well…in the interests of starting fresh, I’d like to see if together we can’t recapture the magic of Christmas.”

          All of the breath was driven out of him by the surge of emotion that filled his chest; Greg dug his fingers into Mycroft’s back and let his forehead come to rest against his chest, right over his thudding heart. “My…sweetheart…” he blinked mist out of his eyes, and then looked up, grinning madly, elation rocketing through him, “You angel.”

 

 

_Christmas Day 2015_

          “I’m not entirely certain why I must wear this… _festive garment_ …to usher in the day,” Mycroft said, frowning grumpily as he plucked at the dark blue wool of the Christmas jumper Greg had given him the night before. “Surely my green tie would have sufficed?”

          “We agreed to summon the magic, didn’t we?” Greg asked, running appreciative eyes over his beautiful boyfriend (!) and then, unable to help himself, running his hands over him as well. Mycroft seemed appreciative of the contact, although he was still pouting adorably. Which was just unnecessary, as the high-end cashmere jumper was quite tasteful, a winter scene against dark blue, with a design of mainly snowflakes and stars, and not even one itty bitty, tiny, insignificant wee snow man.

          “Summoning, my dear? My but we _are_ getting into the spirit of the affair, aren’t we?” Mycroft unbent enough to chuckle, and wrapped his long arms around Greg, bending his head to kiss him on his neck where he had fiendishly discovered it drove Greg mad. Of course, everything Mycroft did had him mad for it. “I must admit,” Mycroft murmured, nuzzling Greg’s ear, “that this shade of green is particularly fetching on you.” He savoured a kiss, “although I find the bobble on Father Christmas’s hat intrusive.” He rubbed at his sternum, where the offending bobble had been pressing every time they embraced. He grimaced at the merry jingle of the bells on the reins of the sleigh.

          “I know this isn’t exactly your thing, My, but I appreciate it.” Greg made himself step back or else they’d never leave for the Cottage. The thought of spending the day with the elder Holmeses, whom he still had a boatload of rageful thoughts about, nearly put a damper on his spirits. But they’d had a long discussion, and Greg wanted Mycroft to forge a new relationship with his parents, and if it meant he had to grit his teeth and behave, he would. It was definitely too soon for him to be introduced to the parents at Christmas, and if anyone had dared to comment on his new relationship, they would undoubtedly caution him to slow down. But Greg had had years of longing for this man pent up inside him, and he was tired of living a life of staid respectability and onerous duty.

          Mycroft needed someone to show him how to love, and Greg Lestrade was the best man for that job. Anyway, they had been flirting for fourteen years, so as far as he was concerned, it was about damn time they finally got together. And if that meant that he had to spend what was sure to be the world’s most awkward Christmas dinner ever with the horror shows who had raised his boyfriend…well, then, he was ready. With bells on.

          Besides, he was quite looking forward to horrifying Sherlock with the sheer volume and variety of physical ways he had amassed with which to shower Mycroft in affection. Feeling quite a bit more cheerful, Greg picked up the hamper from Harrod’s which was full of holiday delicacies, grunting at its weight, “Ready, beautiful?” He didn’t think he would ever get tired of the pinkness that invaded Mycroft’s cheeks when he called him that. Mycroft wasn’t quite as comfortable using pet names just yet, but he was trying. But God, it was worth it when he tried. Mycroft Holmes was fairly devastating without expending any effort—when he turned his charm and intellect and affection towards Greg it achieved shameless results; Greg had already accepted that his heart stood no chance. But he also knew that Mycroft was in just as deep.

          Mycroft manfully grasped the abundance of gift bags for the family which they had shopped for over the last two weeks and nodded, “Let us go seek the magic…my love.” And if there was a slight grimace of worry on his face, well…it didn’t stand much chance against Greg Lestrade.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr @savvyblunders


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